It’s been over a year and a half since my fertility specialist told my husband and me that we have a one percent chance of getting pregnant naturally. Wow! That was a shocker. Even though we knew something was wrong (duh! – we’d been trying for over two years), we still had trouble accepting this difficult new reality. After all, I’d gotten pregnant very easily with my first child. I estimated when I’d be ovulating by using that temperature stick thingy (what’s it called?); we scheduled sex for a Saturday afternoon because we had a party that night and thought we’d be too tired; did the deed in record time (you can thank my husband for that); and I peed on another stick two weeks later to find out the good news.

So we had to make a huge attitude shift from being a very fertile couple who conceive children at the drop of a sperm to joining the ranks of losers out there who have old, rotten, hard-boiled eggs and twisted, retarded sperm who can’t swim up a fallopian tube if their little lives depended on it. (Which they actually do.) We sulked around the house about this for a few months but then our house sale fell through, my mother-in-law died, my cat died, my horse died, and a close friend died. Which put the deaths of all our future children out of our minds for a bit. When the Death Fest of 2009 finally ended, and we were moved into our new home, we had time to mourn our losses and make plans for the future.

But what to do?

The fertility specialist had offered us a 30 percent chance of conceiving a child if we pursued IVF (In Vitro Fertilization for the two people out there who don’t know what I’m talking about). But the procedure was invasive and time-consuming; there was a high chance of multiples; and no guarantee that any of the babies that popped out would be healthy. I had a vision of birthing three babies with extra eyes, livers on the outside of their stomachs, and arms sticking out of their heads and said no thanks. If I had been childless and a bit younger I probably would have eagerly followed this course of treatment, even to the tune of $15,000. But it just didn’t feel right.

“What’s wrong with just having one?” my Dad said when I told him the news. Because unlike you, I actually WANT to be a parent, I did not reply. Out loud. But the words stuck with me. There are advantages to having only one child. You get to pour all your time and energy into the poor thing, using all your resources on him so that he becomes the best violin-playing, soccer ball-kicking, good grade-getting kid that ever existed. He goes on expensive family vacations, eats out at fancy restaurants with you, gets spoken to like an adult, and enjoys the unrestricted attention of two doting parents who—because they feel horrible about not having any other kids—are determined to parent the hell out of the one they do have. As someone who wished her brother had never been born, and wanted to be an only child for as long as she can remember, this sounded pretty good to me. I could live out my own singleton fantasies through my son. Perfect!

I tried hard to make this idea work, but the longing for another child and the feeling that our family was not complete stuck with me. So I decided to foster a litter of kittens. Kittens are small and cute and soft and need lots of care and attention, just like babies. And five kittens are a challenge. They scatter litter everywhere, they put their paws in their food and water and make little kitty prints all over the house, they climb up your new drapes and leave little pinholes, and they hang off your furniture like maniacal little monkeys.

Kittens are a lot of work. Just like babies.

All the kittens but one were adopted out in due course. We kept the last one that nobody else wanted and after eight months or so he had reached his adult size and wasn’t a baby any more. And that’s when I realized something: kittens grow up too fast. And then I realized something else: when people ask how many children you have, they don’t want you to include your feline children in the count. Bottom line: kittens don’t take the place of human children.

I realized I had to get a human child. But how? Growing one of my own was not an option. Traveling to a third-world country and picking up one off the street seemed too complicated and expensive, plus wouldn’t that be illegal? I prepared our spare bedroom for a baby and put it out to the universe that I was ready for a child. If you build it, they will come, I thought to myself. So far only the cats have used the room, but that in itself gave me an idea.

If I can adopt a cat, I can adopt a child.

Just like Shakira croons about the She Wolf in our closets, I want to give voice to our inner Mama Grizzlies but, lucky for you, I won’t be doing it in song.

You know what I mean by Mama Grizzly…she’s the alter-ego of every mommy. She comes to the forefront to protect our kids (or should I say cubs?) when they’re under threat. And I’m not just talking about serious threats to their safety. Off the top of my head, I can think of two “everyday” examples:

Your child excitedly skips onto the playground to ask a group of kids if she can join in their game of tag [or whatever game they happen to be playing at the time]. The self-appointed “leader” in the group nastily responds, “No! YOU can’t play with US!” 

Grrrrrrrr! 

Or maybe your child is eagerly attempting a brand new endeavor [could be a sport, musical instrument or any other activity] and the so-called “adult in charge” tells him “You’re just not good enough.” 

GRRRRRRRR! 

As moms, we do everything in our power to build up our kids’ sense of self worth. But every time they encounter one of these all too common incidents, their confidence is threatened. Then Mama Grizzly kicks in and her first instinct is to get her claws out. 

Before you start thinking I have anger management issues, let me assure you that I have never mauled anyone to death and 99.9% of the time I’m in my Cre8iveMom mindset (which is to say courteous and friendly; heck I’ve been described as “bubbly” more times than I can remember). But there remains that 0.1% of the time when I struggle to muzzle my Mama Grizzly. 

So, Mommy Friends, I’m curious to know…what unleashes YOUR inner Mama Grizzly?

When I was a kid, birthday parties consisted of a bunch of friends dropped off at your house where you ran around like crazy and played stupid games like pin the tail on the donkey. You had ice cream and a dry cake your mom made, you opened presents at the party in front of your guests, and nobody took home a goody bag.

Today’s parties couldn’t be more different. Parents helicopter around their kids, getting in the way and adding to the confusion. At a recent party I went to, three kids brought both sets of parents! Every other kid brought one parent but–and here’s the kicker–NONE of those parents left the party. Guess who was the only parent to drop off her kid, gulp down a glass of soda, and make a break for it? Yes, that would be ME. I used the excuse that I had to go home and shower because I had just been working out. I think they bought it.

This party at least had the traditional elements of being held in the home, silly games were played and the presents were opened. Usually, that is not the norm around here. Most parties are held at places with flashing lights, moonbounces, loud music, and lots of stimulation. Kids run around like frenzied lemmings as parents shift their weight from one leg to another and make inane small talk with other parents we will never again see in our lifetime while thinking of all the chores we should be doing at home and/or that sports game we are missing, or simply that they wish their lousy kid would grow up so they wouldn’t have to attend any more of these painful affairs.

At one such party I attended last year, I was shocked to find that the birthday boy did not even open his presents! My son had carefully selected an Iron Man action figurine that he was sure his friend would love and was totally bummed that the friend didn’t open the gift.

Doesn’t anyone make a lopsided homemade cake anymore? Gourmet cupcakes that cost $3 each are the norm for our area. Last year I spent over $60 on special cupcakes for my son’s party. $60! I could buy the same 20 cupcakes for $10 at my local grocery store. Which is exactly what I did this year.

This year my son turned seven. Fed up with the crazy over-the-top birthday parties and the expense of said birthday parties, I decided to hold a minimalist party. I will confess to you that this was really just a cover for the true reason – that I am lazy and didn’t feel like putting in a lot of effort. Note to all you other slackers out there: this is a good strategy to avoid anything you don’t want to do – just say, “I’m becoming a minimalist and cutting down on excess tasks.” People will actually respect you for this.

I held the party at our swim club. Around here, there are no neighborhood pools, only private swim clubs. You pay money to join and then you pay money every month to keep going and then you pay money for all the swim paraphernalia that your children need and then you pay money for their swim lessons and their swim team and then you pay money for any guests who come with you and then you pay money for an awesome swim suit that the other women will admire and then you pay money for a fancy swim bag that the other women will look at longingly so that they will think that you actually belong there even though you really don’t.

I sent invitations by email and only invited children whose parents I get along with and can stand talking to for three hours. That means the crazy, born-again Christian freaks whose son is my son’s best friend did not make the cut. Sorry, but I was just not in the mood to hear how Americans blew up the World Trade Center, the government controls the media, and drinking our local water will turn you into a gay person. To make the whole experience more palatable, and to stay friends with our friends, my husband packed a large cooler full of beer. We purchased two bags of munchies, some water bottles and juice bags for the kids, and yes, those cheap grocery store cupcakes which I think are awful but the kids inhale as if they hadn’t eaten for three days.

And it was awesome. The kids swam while the grownups chatted and ate all the snacks. We drank a lot of beer and everyone got along great. We opened gifts at the picnic table the old-fashioned way so that everyone could see the what the birthday boy got. There were no goody bags and nobody cared except for one small boy who remembered to ask about them. When I explained that they were a waste of time and money and were full of junk that he would only play with for about 20 minutes and then discard in the dung heap he calls his room, I’m pretty sure he understood.

After the party, I sent out cheap, hand-made thank you notes while congratulating myself on successfully negotiating another birthday party. I spent less than $50 on the whole shebang and everyone had a great time.

Just like when I was a kid.

 I am in big trouble with my husband. I made a mistake of what he would consider “monumental proportions.” To me, it was a mistake, not of monumental proportions but I fixed it. This mistake has led us to dredge up everything that has been bothering us for the past 10 years and has turned into a gigantic fight.

Back-story: This past Friday I spent my morning doing errands and getting my ducks in a row. I picked up my 3 year old from preschool and headed home in a fantastic mood. Three hours to myself is magic after six years of not being able to take a single dump by myself. I unpacked the car, got my little one out of her seat and I opened the screen door and a piece of paper fell to the ground. I picked it up and opened it and saw the following words…”Your electricity has been shut off due to non-payment.” I laughed. No way. I opened the door. Dogs are panting, house is quiet and there is indeed no electricity running.

SHIT.

I freaked out. I had a million groceries, my cell phone was on red and I had no idea where to start.

I am now actually really proud of myself for what I did. I thought fast. I jumped onto my neighbors deck with an extension cord and plugged into his outdoor electricity to attach my cell phone. I called my husband. He was less than pleased, over 45 minutes away and this was my problem, my mistake and I had to fix it. Fine. I called Peco. They treated me like I assume they treat most poor souls who this happens to – like crap. I forgot to pay the bill. I remember no warning letters, I remember no phone calls. Just electricity turned off. After much yelling and arguing, I pay last month’s bill, this month’s bill and they make me give them a deposit for next month. I am like the rest of America. When one has to export that much money on a whim’s notice from a bank account, it is never a good thing. They tell me that since my payment is processed it will take up to 72 hours to restore my power. My 3 year old is pitching a fit because the TV won’t turn on, my groceries are melting and I can only make calls from my back deck with stolen electricity from my neighbor in the blazing sun because every phone in my house needed electricity to run.

Since my girls have asthma, I quickly told them that we had a medical condition, called up our asthma DR, begged the RN to call the medical hotline number at PECO and let them know that my little angels could not breathe without their nebulizer machines hooked up to the outlet. Once this is all confirmed, they move the time that my electricity will turn back on to within 24 hours. Ha. Unsatisfactory.  

I grabbed my child, went to my stash of emergency cash, drained it and put us all in the car with the AC. We drove around and looked for the PECO guy – there had to be one somewhere, working. After an hour of driving up and down every street, I had no luck. I went home. I unloaded everyone, walked back into the house and cried. My husband calls to see if I’ve fixed it, we argue, I hang up and I walk outside to get the mail and PECO drives by. I ran into the middle of the road, he stopped. I cried. I explained my situation, I handed him cash and begged him to help me. He did. His name was Jack, he had two kids at home, a wife and understood the world of hurt I would be in if we didn’t have electricity for 24 hours. The wonderful noise of power whooshing back on in my house was a glorious sound. Do I care that my neighbors watched the whole scene and now know that I forgot to pay the bill? No. I am proud that within two hours, I got our shut off electricity back on with only a little melted ice cream and a drained emergency cash stash. I hopped the deck, removed the extension cord and left to go pick up my daughter  from first grade who would remain unscathed from the whole situation.

My husband, and I however, are clearly not unscathed from the situation. And don’t get me wrong. I understand his frustration. I dropped the ball. He is still irrigated at me. And we all well know that one slip up like this means that all of our slip ups are going to surface, be discussed and fought about. It’s like the century of all fights. We will be fine. It is cathartic to talk about the one time five years ago when I said this and he was upset and what not, right? It’s totally ridiculous that we have let this situation snowball into this argument, but we will eventually move past it.

What I do know now, is that I have way too many balls in the air and one by one, they are dropping. I have too many responsibilities and when I ignore some facets of our lives, the consequences can be severe. I know that since I don’t get paid for my job as a stay-at-home Mom, when I drop a ball such as this, one that affects our bank account in such a big way, I cannot help out by fixing it monetarily and I feel very frustrated and guilty.

I am just a Mom who has too much on her plate, like every other Mom out there, working and non. We all drop the ball sometimes, but I am willing to bet, this instance is proof, that us Moms pick that ball back up, put it back into the juggling routine faster and more efficiently than ANYone else could. I will never let any bill lapse like that again, I learned a lesson but I fixed it faster than I am willing to bet my lovely husband would have. And for that, I am proud of myself.

How the rest of this fight pans out, is a different story. I’ll keep you posted!

I was the woman who was so big at nine months pregnant, that people stopped me in public to let me know just how gargantuan I was, in case I had somehow forgotten. And yes, I was the woman in the maternity ward who people stopped by to see – “the one who delivered the biggest baby in the nursery” – like it was some kind of world record (10 lb. 7 oz. may be big, but it’s hardly a record, people).

My not-so-little guy grew by leaps and bounds his first year – weighing 24 pounds at his first birthday. Feeding this child has obviously never been an issue. But, and this is a big BUT, we’re halfway to two years old, and by god, he’s starting to eat like one.

Call me naive, most people do, but I honestly didn’t think the dreaded toddler-tug-of eating-war would apply to this guy. I thought he would continue on his usual inhale-everything-in-front-of-him path until he was out the door to college. But that doesn’t seem to be the case.

He’s now very picky selective – grunting and pointing to what he wants if it’s not in front of him – no longer likes foods he once did, and stops eating altogether if his older brother is finished. Now, I’m that woman you see in a restaurant pleading with her 1 ½ year old to eat just a few bites of peas…pleeeaaasse. I very much dislike that woman.

This is it–the big year–both of my kids are seniors. Not seniors in high school (thank goodness–I’m nowhere NEAR ready for that!), but the top dogs at their respective schools. You see, in our district, elementary school is broken down into two convenient, bite-sized morsels: the Lower Elementary School houses K-2 and the Upper Elementary takes on 3-5.

So, while my petite second-grade daughter may look like a Kindergartener, she definitely knows her way around the monkey bars. She can rock a pair of hot pink and lime green high-tops with confidence and tackles her homework each afternoon with the greatest of ease. Plus she’s earned the much coveted right to sit mid-way to the back of the bus. Life is good.

My fifth-grade son scored his first choice in “leadership roles” and just came home with his Safety Patrol belt the other day. You wouldn’t believe how much pride that few feet of neon yellow webbing can hold. It’s like he’s been preparing for this his entire school career. We talked about it and we’re definitely in agreement that the Spiderman Principle applies to his job: “With great power comes great responsibility.”

Hmm…my Spidey-senses are telling me this is gonna be a phenomenal school year.

What can I say about kindergarten? It wasn’t as traumatic as I thought it would be – I only cried once. Oh, did you think I meant traumatic for my son? No, no, no, it’s all about ME! Perhaps my son was a little anxious about his first day, but he didn’t dissolve into a puddly mess as he entered the school. Nope, that was all me. I really really really wanted to go to the Boo Hoo breakfast, thrown by the PTA, that was held in the gymatorium so I could be wrapped in the loving comfort of other moms also mourning the end of preshoolerdom and the start of the grade school years, but sadly, I had to get home to meet the electricians. Later that day my friend on the PTA let me know that only ONE other mother was reduced to tears at the Boo Hoo breakfast so now I’m glad I didn’t go because I would have been known as the other sap in the room. Much better for everyone to cast pity glances at the other mom and not at me. My friend was probably one of those as I happen to know that she calls it the Yoo Hoo! Breakfast. What can I say, she has a third grader and her husband isn’t home very much.

So it’s all good. I’m enjoying my days home alone. I really don’t miss my son very much during the day, even though I tell him I do (yes, I am a liar). I’ve discovered I can get a lot of work done around the house and for my business when he isn’t around tugging on my shirt saying, “Mommy, mommy, look at this.” I can go to Target without blowing 20 bucks on toys (yes, I am weak), I can go to the grocery store without coming home loaded with cookies and crackers and sugary cereal (yes, I am weak), and I can even go out to lunch with a friend and have an adult conversation (yes, I do have one or two friends left). On Monday, I sat around all day and finished off the latest Sookie Stackhouse book. How’s that for personal indulgence.

I wish I could write a post about how wrenching it was to be separated from my son all day but I just can’t. Or I could but I would be lying. Yes, I’m a little sad that he is growing up so fast and I feel definite pangs when I think of him in his two-year-old form. But I can’t go back in time and I can’t keep him at six forever. Time marches on and we have to go with it. (Or else I’d go back to my 26-year-old body in a flash.) So now that I’ve joined the ranks of the Moms With Kids At School, I have to wonder, what’s next for me? Oh crap, now I might have to get a job.

From the time I started high school, I dreaded the day I would have to dissect a frog in biology class. It seemed disrespectful and, quite frankly, positively disgusting, to slice open and pick around the innards of a frog. Twenty years later, I never dreamed I would feel a certain kinship with that frog. But lo and behold…

How I happened to find myself strapped to an operating table came as quite the unpleasant surprise. I had my first child naturally and assumed I would have my second the same way. But at my 38-week appointment, my doctor ordered an ultrasound as she suspected the baby was growing quite large. Quite large indeed – he was estimated at 9 pounds 10 ounces, give or take a pound. Given my rough delivery with my first son that almost resulted in a C-section (and he was just 8 pounds 4 ounces), along with the possible complications of delivering a large baby vaginally, such as temporary or permanent nerve damage to the baby’s shoulders, we needed to consider all delivery options, i.e. the C-section. My husband and I agonized over the decision – the idea of a C-section was horrifying to me for a number of reasons: I wanted to go into labor on my own this time (I was overdue two weeks and induced with my first); I wanted to be able to hold my baby the minute he was born and not have my arms strapped to a table; I didn’t want a rougher and longer recovery; heck, I didn’t want to go through major surgery! I wanted the birth to be about having a baby and not about having surgery.

But this enormous list of cons was wiped out with just one pro – no risk (or I should say, minimal risk) to the baby. Because how could we live with ourselves if the baby was born with permanent shoulder damage or suffered stress during the delivery? For us, the answer was simple – we knew that we couldn’t.

That didn’t mean I walked effortlessly into the operating room. We made the decision on a Friday and the following Monday was scheduled for my son’s birthday. I was a nervous wreck all weekend – thinking about how I would be sliced open, awake, and fully aware of all that was happening. No matter how many people pointed out that my son would be born on Monday, all I could think of was that I was having surgery. It was next to impossible for me to rationally think about the two as cause and effect, a means to a (very wonderful) end.

Monday came and off we went to the hospital – not the exhilarating drive of finally being in labor that I so wanted to experience – but an agonizing ride during which my fear of the unknown overtook me.

The seemingly incessant waiting before the surgery was stressful enough to send me out of the hospital to catch a bus home – in my very flattering, reveal-all gown. The waiting soon felt like a picnic though once I was wheeled into the operating room. Cold. Sterile. Scary. The room showcased all of the intimidating instruments, saucer-like lights, and gadgets that you see on TV shows. I certainly didn’t expect it to look like a spa – but seeing the OR up close slapped me into the reality of the situation.

The anesthesiologist started to do his thing and I saw my doctor washing up and putting on her gloves and mask. There was no turning back now – this was going down in just a few moments. I felt tingling in my legs as my doc moved toward the table and talked to me a bit. I remember frantically calling out that I could still feel my legs – and asking them to make sure that they wouldn’t cut until I didn’t feel a thing. They obliged (probably chuckling to themselves).

My doc called out the incision time – 9:58 – and just four minutes later at 10:02, my little boy joined us. I was amazed at the physical and emotional rush I felt as they pulled him out – it wasn’t the same as that final, exhausting push that brought me my first son – but it was a rush just the same, so unexpected and absolutely gratifying.

There were gasps and laughter from everyone in the OR at the sight of my son – he was indeed large! He weighed a whopping 10 pounds 7 ounces and was 21 ½ inches long. The operating room suddenly took on a different vibe – it was now a nursery and everyone was fawning over my son. After a quick wipe-down and swaddle, a nurse immediately brought him over to me. My arms were freed and I was able to hold him myself. The nurses took countless pictures of me and my husband with him – the photo session seemed to go on for almost a half hour – while my doc was putting me back together. I have more photos of my second son’s first minutes than I do of my first son’s. I never would have expected that.

Overall, there was much that I didn’t expect. Like the extent to which the doctors and nurses turned an intimidating operating room into a festive birthday party, the good care that they gave me for the next four days I spent recovering in the hospital, the overwhelming rush I felt in seeing my boy for the first time, and most surprisingly, the realization that the way he got here, in the end, didn’t make a damn bit of difference.

Whether you believe in global warming or not (and how could you not, dodo?), there is no doubt that trees are a welcome addition to our yards, neighborhoods, lives, and well-being. Trees provide shade, cooling, beauty, and oxygen. Trees keep us happy and alive. According to the National Wildlife Federation website, “If every one of America’s 91 million gardening households planted just one young shade tree in their yards or communities, those trees would absorb about 2.25 million tons of carbon dioxide each year.”

Some benefits of trees are:

• Shade trees can reduce utility bills by 15 to 50 percent
• One tree can supply enough oxygen for a family of four
• A single tree can absorb the carbon dioxide produced by four cars each year
• Healthy trees can increase residential property values by up to 15 percent

So get yourself to a garden center and choose a large shade tree today. Be sure to plant it in the southwest corner of your yard for maximum shade during the hot summer months.

I work at home so my office tends to get cluttered and messy. I have piles of paper here, stacks of books there, file folders all over. I also share the office with my husband and son so before I sit down to work I have to clear off a Bionicle, some kid scissors, my husband’s school papers, and a box of crayons. And it’s a super small room, about 9 x 10. A u-shaped desk lines the three sides of wall and an antique desk and bookcase takes up the fourth wall. This latter I have designated for my son’s use because it keeps him out of the main work area. Yes, it’s an antique and he bangs it up and draws on the writing surface, but it’s a small price to pay to keep him busy while I work. My office is also where I work on hobbies, so there are stacks of genealogy materials, jewelry making supplies, miscellaneous stuff I want to sell on eBay, 5 boxes of slides that I need to weed through, and notebooks for the charity work I do. All in all, it’s a very full room.

Lately, since we’ve put our house up for sale and it needs to look tidy for potential buyers, I’ve been on a decluttering binge. I’ve been going through every drawer, nook, and cranny in the office and chucking things mercilessly.

First up, I took a look at all the media I have around the office. I immediately threw out all my floppy disks. You should, too! Seriously, just dump these. Nobody uses these anymore. New computers don’t even have floppy drives. Then I decided to throw out my zip disks. This was a little more difficult because I was quite enamored of zip disks and I used them for many years for backups. The pain of throwing these out was similar to the agony I felt when converting to table-less CSS web design. Well, I got through that, I figured I could manage without my zip disks. It helped that the only zip drive I had left was broken a few years ago by my son shoving random objects into it. So into the trash they went. I’m pretty sure I won’t miss them. New computers don’t come with zip drives any more. These days everyone uses USB drives which are small, portable, and hold more stuff.

I have a lot of files backed up on CD’s. Most of these are of old family photos that I have scanned. I copy the high resolution, scanned photos to a disk and then keep a smaller sized copy on my hard drive to refer to. If for some reason I ever need the larger version, I can pull that CD and copy it off. Of course, I organize all my family photos in a database so it’s easy to locate them when the time comes. One thing I could do to free up more space is to copy all the CD’s onto DVD’s, which hold much more data. I might do this someday. Eventually, CD’s and DVD’s will no longer be used for data storage so I’ll need to convert to whatever the newest technology is. One thing I might do is invest in a media hub which will store all my photos, videos, and music. Of course, this means another piece of equipment sitting on my desk, but if I could eliminate all those hard copies of CD’s it might be worth it. I use mozy.com to automatically back up all the files on my three computers. It costs a small fee every month to do this but it’s priceless to have this done automatically. No more backing up files at the end of the day. No more stacks of CD’s, floppies, USB drives, and zip disks cluttering up my life. I highly recommend Mozy or another back up utility for everyone.

I discovered I had pens in four places in my office. This was no good. I found a large wicker bin and dumped all the pens and pencils into the bin. I’d like to throw out all the ball points and weird pens I never use but I haven’t done this yet. My husband uses ball points and my son uses pencils so I might have to keep them.

I had a cool Kleenex box that I emptied of tissues and tossed in miscellaneous scraps of paper like people’s addresses, little to do notes, plant ID tags, etc. Most of the scraps were no longer pertinent to my current life so I copied the data I wanted to keep into my address book and threw everything else into the trash, including the tissue box. It was really hard throwing away that tissue box. It was one of those really pretty ones with a cool design on it.

I used to keep scraps of paper all over the house with notes to myself about various projects, phone calls from clients, etc. I eliminated all this paper by buying spiral bound notebooks in different sizes and copying the info down into them. I keep one in my purse for to do lists, two on my desk for the businesses that I run, and one for blogging ideas. When we were remodeling our house, I set up an organizer that zipped shut for all those pamphlets, invoices, and receipts. Once a project was done, I transferred the necessary materials to our house binder for the next resident. At this point, I’m confident that I’ve conquered the scraps of paper disease.

I found a box in my closet labeled “Entertainment Software” full of old computer games, an encyclopedia, a German language learning CD, and a “Diagnose Your Auto Trouble” CD. I put all this junk in the Goodwill bin. Then I took the boxes of the games my husband currently plays down from the shelf where they were hogging up space and removed the CD’s and manuals from the boxes, which I threw away. I put the CD’s and manuals into the pretty storage box and stuck it back up on the shelf. It looks much better than a shelf of miscellaneous software boxes.

Lastly, I took a hard look around and got rid of all those little tchotchkes that I keep around the office. The vase with dried flowers that is nothing more than a dust magnet, the little crafts projects my son brings home from school, the paper organizers, etc. All were thrown away or put elsewhere.

I have to say, even with all this work, the office is still pretty full of stuff. The closet is a bit more empty so I’m going to work on filling that back up with some stuff from the office. My file cabinets are also a bit more empty because I’ve been on a paperless kick for some time now. I still have some things I’d like to work on: the genealogy piles, the old slides, the music CD’s, and all my notes from design school. But I’ve made a great start and coming into the office is a little more fun now.

I’d love to hear from readers what tips you’ve used to keep your office space uncluttered. Please comment below so we can all help each other have a well-functioning space for office work and more.